


Burns are stains hard to remove

by kiexen



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley is traumatized from the bookshop burning, M/M, the poor man-shaped being needs a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 21:16:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19342798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiexen/pseuds/kiexen
Summary: Crowley sauntered his way past the firefighters that surrounded the flaming bookshop. With a snap of his fingers, the door leapt open to let him through, another snap and they slammed shut again. “Aziraphale!” the demon called into the wreckage. “Aziraphale, where the hel- hea- whatever are you!” Panic had crept into Crowley’s voice as he shouted. “I can’t find you!”





	Burns are stains hard to remove

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts of "I had a nightmare about you" + "I can't stand the thought of losing you."

_Crowley sauntered his way past the firefighters that surrounded the flaming bookshop. With a snap of his fingers, the door leapt open to let him through, another snap and they slammed shut again. “Aziraphale!” the demon called into the wreckage. “Aziraphale, where the hel- hea-_ whatever _are you!” Panic had crept into Crowley’s voice as he shouted. “I can’t find you!”_

_A jet of water broke through the window and slammed into Crowley, sending him across the shop and onto the floor, hard, his glasses flying off his face in the process. The water did little to quell the raging flames, and even less for the smoke swirling around that threatened to suffocate the distraught demon. “Somebody killed my best friend!” Crowley choked into the empty building, the light from the flames glowing upon the tears streaking down his cheeks. “Bastards!” His hands ran up into his hair to clutch at it as a sob wracked through his body. How dare they, how dare they kill_ his _angel? Aziraphale was gone, and the last actual conversation he had with him was him yelling at the angel that he was going to run off into the stars and not even think about him,_ twice _, and now he’s_ dead _and_ gone _and and and—_

With a jolt, Crowley bolted up in bed, panting heavily. Biting back a sob, he curled in on himself, pulling his knees into his chest and pressed shaking hands to his mouth, swallowing hard, as if to dislodge ash that wasn’t there. _Dead, dead he’s dead oh go-, sa-, somebody, his angel was dead and his shop was—_ Cutting the thought off sharply, he moved to press the palms of his hands into his eyes instead. _No, no he’s not dead he’s fine, he was just discorporated, he’s okay…Right?_ Crowley knew that Aziraphale got a new body and his shop was restored, but there was the small part of him that was still processing the nightmare that was unconvinced either of those things actually happened.

In one swift movement, the demon flung his blanket off him and swung his legs off the side of the bed to stand. With a snap of his fingers, his dark, silk pajamas were replaced with his usual attire. There was only one way to assure himself that Aziraphale was, in fact, alive, and that was to just go over to the shop*.

Striding out of the room, he pulled his sunglasses out of the pocket of his coat and slid them on. The plants, sensing his distress, shrunk away from him as he passed them, afraid he would take his wrath out on them, but Crowley didn’t even spare them a glance.

The cool air of the night breezed around Crowley as he made his way to and into the Bentley, but it wasn’t cool enough to remove the feeling of flames licking around him. Crowley fumbled with the CDs in his car before finally getting a grip on one; Beethoven, and shoving it into the radio, hoping it would distract his mind just enough while he was driving. The thought was dashed quickly, just as quickly as he shut the radio back off again, as the first few notes of _You’re my best friend_ started playing. Not again, not now. “Fuck you,” he muttered quietly, before giving into his fate of silence and pulled out of the parking spot.

It didn’t take him long to reach the shop and swing into his usual parking spot. For a few moments he just sat, staring at the definitely still intact bookshop. Stepping out of the car, Crowley walked up to the door, snapping his fingers to open it, trying** to shove down the imagery welling up at the action. With another snap, the doors thudded shut behind him. There was a rustle in the back room that Crowley didn’t notice as he stood there, drinking in the sight of the pristine shelves*** and the scent of old books and parchment.

“—dare say, we are most certainly clo… Crowley?” The angel’s voice startled the demon, who’s head snapped around to look at Aziraphale. Lovely, living, definitely not dead, Aziraphale. Crowley just stood there, staring, which caused the angel’s expression to deepen further in concerned territory. “Crowley, my dear, what’s the matter?” Aziraphale made his way around stacks of books to take Crowley’s trembling (when did that start.) hand with one of his own, using his other to pull off the demon’s sunglasses, revealing wide, frantic eyes, Crowley’s breath hitching as he did so. “Love, what—” Crowley interrupted him by throwing his arms around the angel, clinging to him and burying his face in Aziraphale’s neck, breathing in his scent. Safe. Alive. Okay. Aziraphale made a soft noise, that could have been an ‘oh’ before wrapping his arms around Crowley. Crowley mumbled something quietly, that the angel didn’t catch. “What was that, my dear?”

Crowley lifted his head just enough so his words weren’t muffled, “I had a nightmare about you. About, about what happened. That day. When I ssaid I was going to run off and leave you behind and then your sshop was on fire and I couldn’t find you and,” his voice cracked, “and when I thought you were _dead_ and I would have to facsse the end of the world and the resst of eternity without you, without my _besst friend_.” The last part was said in a rush, as if he didn’t say it fast and force it out, he wouldn’t say it at all. He buried his head again, and Aziraphale’s heart broke as he gripped his demon tighter.

“Oh, oh my dear, I didn’t realise—I’m so sorry. But you know fire wouldn’t _kill_ me, just discorporate me,” he said, rubbing Crowley’s back softly.

“ _Normal_ fire wouldn’t. I thought—I was afraid—that it was _hellfire,_ angel. That _would_ have killed you. I thought, I thought…” Instead of finishing his thought, he just pressed closer to the angel, holding him tighter, hiccupping.

“Shh, it’s okay. I’m sorry, my dear, I wish you didn’t have to go through that. I wasn’t intending to leave at all, but that man kept pushing and pushing, thinking I were a _demon_ and trying to exorcise me, and backed me into the gate to Heaven.” Aziraphale moved one of his hands up to pet Crowley’s head soothingly. “I’m sorry, I really am.”

“Ss’not your fault, angel,” he sniffed. “I’m sorry for getting so worked up over it again, I just, I can’t stand the thought of losing you.” Aziraphale’s heart broke further.

“Love, you’re never going to lose me, I swear it. Not if I have anything to do with it.” The angel kissed the demon’s head softly. Crowley didn’t respond, but did press his face into him more. They stayed like that for a while, Aziraphale rubbing his back still as Crowley calmed down.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley croaked, eventually.

“Yes, my dear?”

“Can… I stay here?” The question was soft and Aziraphale barely caught it. “I just… Don’t want to go back to my flat and be alone.”

“Oh, love, of _course_ you can stay.” Aziraphale pulled away to take Crowley’s hand, and lead him into the backroom, where, at Crowley’s insistence, he returned to the book he had been reading on the couch. The demon draped himself across the couch, between Aziraphale’s legs before nestling his face into his stomach, content in the warmth and love emanating from his very much alive angel.

 

 

*Crowley faintly was also aware he could, in fact, just call him. He didn’t spare the idea a second thought.

**And failing, miserably.

***If pristine meant “unburned”. In any other context, pristine would not be anywhere near the list of words Crowley, or anyone, for that matter, would describe the cluttered shop.

**Author's Note:**

> Some less important notes:  
> YouTube autoplay called me OUT while writing this, it played "You're my best friend" and "Somebody to love" one after the other. It *knew*. For this fact, and this fact alone, was the part with the Bentley added.  
> I did not have the energy to reread or rewatch the actual scene for the first part. Chalk up the differences to dream shenanigans?  
> I need to stop writing in the middle of the night.  
> There was no beta, and I'm too tired now to reread it before posting. If there's any mistakes caught before I can reread it, do let me know!


End file.
